


The Difference Between a Cat and a Comma, Or, The One Where McGonagall Has Sass

by shilo1364



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Coming Out, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Ginny is Harry's best friend, Great Hall Relationship Reveal, HP: EWE, Harry/Draco and Ginny/luna double-date, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Humor, Inspired by a Tumblr pun, M/M, Mentor Minerva McGonagall, No Sex, No Smut, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Secret Relationship, Thestrals, Tie-Switching, Transfiguration (Harry Potter), Transfigurations, background Ronmione, harry is annoyed at Ron and hermione, tea with Hagrid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-08-12 22:41:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7952047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shilo1364/pseuds/shilo1364
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eighth year at Hogwarts is going to be boring. That's what Draco Malfoy thinks when the Wizengamot makes attendance a condition of his pardon. After all, after letting Death Eaters into the school, failing to kill his headmaster, and being forced to serve a homicidal madman, how could finishing up his education *possibly* be interesting?</p><p>Answer: a coveted Transfigurations advanced study position, Minerva Mcgonagall's surprising fondness for him, Thestrals, tea with Hagrid, tutoring Harry Potter, Granger and Weasley's excessive PDA, and the perplexing nature of sleight-of-hand double-dates with Harry, Luna, and Ginny. And then, of course, there's righteously indignant (if misinformed) Weasley, Draco's own insecurities and flair for dramatics, and a long-suffering Kingsley Shacklebolt.</p><p>If I can work in tie-switching and Great Hall relationship reveal I will, because those are some of my very favorite tropes.<br/>UPDATE: Ha! Did it. Tie-switching and Great Hall relationship reveal coming up in chapter 8 ;-)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Difference Between a Cat and a Comma

**Author's Note:**

  * For [1236789](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1236789/gifts).



> This fic was initially Inspired by a pun found on tumblr, but has since grown beyond its humble beginnings.

Draco Malfoy was tired. He’d been reluctant to return to Hogwarts for the new “eighth year” – a component of Acting Headmistress McGonagall’s post-war agenda – partly because he was genuinely sorry for his role in the destruction of the school, but mostly because he knew it would be like this.

He spent every waking moment that he wasn’t in class or bolting down meals holed up here in the library, in his own secluded corner. No one bothered him here, either because they were ignoring him, or because they didn’t know this spot existed. He’d dragged over his favorite chair – overstuffed, faded and worn, and supremely comfortable – at the beginning of term, and no one had tried to take it from him. He sometimes wondered, as he peered out at the other students, if this was how Potter felt when he was under that blasted invisibility cloak. As if the world – or maybe just himself – wasn’t actually real. Draco shook his head to chase away the fancies, turning resolutely away from Potter, and back to his book.

There were 137 books on Transfigurations in the Hogwarts library. Draco knew this, because he’d spent most of this term reading every one. Well, every one he could find. Five of them were missing – Madam Pince scowled at him, when he questioned her about them, looking as if she suspected _he’d_ been the one to misplace them (though, really, it wasn’t like he’d be asking her about them if he had) – and six had been checked out since the beginning of term by one Hermione Granger.

Draco eyed her, where she sat with her two sidekicks. (They were her sidekicks, Draco had decided. Everyone thought Harry was in charge of those three but… nearly eight years of watching them had told him that in this case, at least, everyone was wrong). She was bent industriously over a stack of books and parchment, and Draco sighed. He was almost certain that one of the books he needed for this assignment was in that stack. But it may as well have been on Mars, for all the good it did him.

Draco tipped his chair back onto its back legs, propped his feet onto the table in front of him, and stared out the window at Madam Hooch’s first-years, zooming about on their brooms. He ached to be out there, in the clear November skies, but…

But.

Draco hadn’t flown since the fiendfyre incident the year before. He just… couldn’t.

He’d left his broom at home – or, tried to, anyway. It had made the journey to Hogwarts regardless – he suspected that his mother had had a hand in it. She was intent on meddling in his life, of ensuring he “made something of himself.” Draco wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but he knew it didn’t sound good.

All he wanted was to be left in peace. Which was why, this term, he’d spent every spare moment in the library. Where better to ensure he’d avoid the majority of his peers? Especially on good flying days, like today. For that matter, why wasn’t _Potter_ outside today?

Draco frowned, turning his attention back to their table. He could just see Potter’s mop of tousled curls over the precarious stacks of books that hid his alcove away from the rest of the library. Potter was bent over something on their table, chewing absently at his lower lip as his quill scratched frantically across his parchment. Draco winced as the quill sputtered, leaving irregular blotches of ink on the parchment, but Potter just kept scribbling.

Suddenly suspicious, Draco turned his attention to Granger, who was seated next to Potter. Only she wasn’t. She was wrapped indecently around the Weasel, sitting half on his lap as he snogged her senseless. Draco was about to look away, lip already curling in disgust, when Harry slipped the parchment he’d been bent over back in front of Granger. The Weasel gave him a discreet thumbs-up behind her back, even as they separated. The bell rang, then, and Granger grabbed up her books and parchments without really looking at them, stuffing them into her bag and herding the others toward the door.

Draco snorted. Wonderful. Potter had been _copying_ Granger’s essay. No doubt the one that was due in Transfigurations in a few minutes. Well, probably not _copying_ , he admitted to himself. Even Potter – even devil-may-care post-war Potter – was smarter than that. He’d most likely produced yet another completely illegible mess of stolen phrases, key words, and randomly copied notes that would get high marks just because he was _the Chosen One_.

Draco winced, thinking of his last Potions essay. He’d spent _days_ on it, and had barely managed a passing grade. Potter had jotted down a load of nonsense five minutes before class – Draco had watched him, appalled – and gotten the highest score in the class. Because he was _Saint Potter,_ of course, and Draco Malfoy was only a teenage Death Eater.

Potter had already been accepted into Auror training. So had the Weasel, for that matter. Draco knew they were only back at Hogwarts this year because Granger had insisted. They didn’t _need_ the grades. That, combined with their post-war hero status, meant that Potter and the Weasel put even _less_ work into their studies these days, if such a thing were possible. Granger, being Granger, completed each assignment diligently, but even she had begun to let things slide, preferring snogging the Weasel even over reading her beloved books.

Draco felt slightly ill at the thought, and quickly pushed it aside. The Golden Trio were already at the library doors, jostling and shoving one another good-naturedly, and Draco sent that morning’s books winging back to their shelves with a practiced flick of his wand and grabbed his bag, hurrying after the receding forms of Potter and Co. The last thing he needed was for McGonagall to get on his case for being late to Transfigurations.

She was the only professor in the entire school who still treated him fairly. He couldn’t jeopardize that – he _needed_ her to agree to write his recommendations. And not only because he knew she would evaluate him honestly, but because he had decided to pursue Transfigurations after graduation. Assuming he could get somebody to agree to take him on.

Everyone expected him to pursue Potions, of course. He’d always gotten the highest marks in it – well, until Horace Slughorn, Harry Potter’s biggest fan, took over Snape’s job – but he’d never _enjoyed_ it the way he did Transfigurations. Potions was… not easy, exactly. It was only that his late godfather had been instructing him in Potions since he could walk, spending his summers tutoring Draco at Malfoy Manor. Lucius wanted the best for his son. Thankfully, it was no longer Lucius’ decision, as he was currently rotting in Azkaban. As, Draco admitted easily, he should be.

Potions was a chore, tedious and boring, and now it brought a host of bad memories. No, he wouldn’t pursue Potions. Transfigurations, though… Draco smiled involuntarily, recalling the bubbling elation that always surged through him when he managed a flawless transfiguration. Yes. He _loved_ Transfigurations. He just needed to convince McGonagall of that – and to give him a chance. He’d been putting it off all term, and he needed to talk to her soon if he was going to; next week they would be choosing the elective classes they would take for their final term at Hogwarts. He knew what he wanted to do: an independent study in advanced Transfigurations. But he needed McGonagall’s permission to sign up for it; she only took one student each year.

Draco sighed. He was never going to get in. He slumped into his seat, all the nervous energy bleeding out of him. One student, out of the whole returning eighth year – _and_ the seventh years, he realized suddenly, dropping his head to thunk quietly on his desk. He didn’t stand a chance.

* * *

Draco slid into his seat in the Transfigurations classroom the next day with a few minutes to spare. The Golden Trio had stopped to chat with the mob of students in the hall, and Draco took the time to compose himself and ponder the best way to ask his question. He’d decided, after a long firecall with his mother the night before, to go through with it after all. This was his last chance to make something of himself – to prove he was _not_ his father’s son. He glanced around for McGonagall, idly wondering if he ought to get it over with now, rather than waiting until after class, but he didn’t see her. Sighing, he pulled out his quill and parchment, readying himself for the day’s note-taking.

The bell rang just as the loitering students slipped through the door. Draco looked up from the snitch he was doodling in the corner of his parchment; McGonagall’s chair was empty. He frowned. After several seconds ticked by, with no sign of McGonagall, the classroom erupted in whispers. Draco sighed. It wasn’t like McGonagall to be late. Which meant she was being delayed – probably by some pompous ministry official. Which meant she wouldn’t be likely to be receptive to his request. Which meant he would have to wait until next week – which meant he was royally screwed.

Draco slashed an angry line through the snitch, spattering ink across the parchment. He didn’t bother blotting it. What was the point?

Draco startled as a sleek tabby cat leaped suddenly onto McGonagall’s desk and sat primly, tail curled around its legs. The class fell silent as the cat stared unblinkingly out at them for a moment, then lifted one paw and studied it, flexing its claws in and out.

The cat looked up, locking eerily knowing eyes with Potter’s, and then stretched languidly and leaped off the desk with liquid grace, form shifting and blurring in midair. Professor McGonagall landed, light as any cat, calm and unruffled and not a hair out of place. She waved at the stack of parchment on the edge of her desk. “Mister Weasley. Please pass those back, would you?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” the Weasel muttered. Draco’s stomach dropped as he glanced at the essay the Weasel tossed at him. It didn’t have a grade – merely a “See me after class” in red ink. His vision blurred, and he had to blink back tears. So much for McGonagall being the one professor who treated him fairly and honestly.

“Mister Potter,” McGonagall said sharply, as the Weasel took his seat. “Would you do me the favor of reading aloud the note at the top of your essay?”

Harry blushed. “Um. OK.” He cleared his throat. “No credit, on grounds of abysmal understanding of the topic and mangling of the English language. Replacement essay due at the beginning of class on Monday; partial credit only.”

McGonagall nodded. “Can I assume, Mister Potter, that you did last night’s reading with the same diligence as you did the previous night’s?”

Harry frowned. “Er…”

“Excellent. Perhaps you can enlighten us all, therefore, as to the difference between a cat and a comma?”

“Er…” Harry slanted a panicked glance at Granger, who was staring at McGonagall, forehead wrinkled in thought. The Weasel was staring blankly ahead, eyes slightly glazed. Draco wanted desperately to laugh as Harry glanced around at the confusion on his classmates’ faces, looking utterly baffled. He held his breath, hoping to stifle the laughter, fighting to maintain his bored expression. _Surely, she can’t mean what I think she does?_

“The answer, Mister Potter,” said McGonagall, tone clipped, “which you would do well to remember for your next essay, is this.” She turned to the board and started writing in elegant, looping script as she spoke. “One has claws at the ends of its paws, and one is a pause at the end of a clause.”

She turned back, biting her lip to stifle the smile as she inspected her nails. There was a long beat of silence and then the class dissolved into slightly incredulous laughter, Draco included. _Her delivery was fucking perfect!_

Harry just stared. Draco laughed harder. _That was better than anything Snape managed. McGonagall – you’re absolutely my new favorite teacher._ For the first time since class started, Draco allowed himself to hope that McGonagall might consider his request after all.

* * *

Draco stood in front of McGonagall’s desk as the other students filed out, biting his lip nervously and clutching his essay in clammy hands.

“Mister Malfoy,” she began, and then she seemed to take in his anxious expression, and her tone softened. “I don’t bite, Mister Malfoy,” she said, rummaging in her desk. “Here.” She waved a tin at him.

“Professor?”

She sighed. “A biscuit, Mister Malfoy. Have a biscuit.” She waved the tin under his nose, and he reached out automatically and took one.

“And for goodness sakes, Mister Malfoy, have a seat. You look like you’ve been dragged before the Wizengamot.”

Draco’s eyes widened, and he froze, biscuit halfway to his lips.

McGonagall winced. “My apologies, Mister Malfoy. All I meant was that I only wanted to commend you on a truly brilliant essay, and to ask if you’ve given any thought to the elective you wish to take next term.”

“I have…” Draco said hesitantly.

McGonagall smiled briskly. “Excellent. I would like you to consider taking an independent study in Advanced Transfigurations, and – ”

“Yes!” Draco blurted.

McGonagall frowned at him. “Mister Malfoy. I do not ask this lightly. It will be a great deal of work, and – ”

“No, I mean, yes, I mean…” Draco stuttered to a halt and took a breath, collecting his thoughts. “What I mean, Professor McGonagall, is that I would absolutely _love_ to take an independent study with you. I had been planning to ask you to consider taking me on after class today, anyway.”

“Oh? Well. Good, then. Now,” McGonagall steepled her fingers, leaning towards him earnestly, “I do have one condition.”

Draco’s heart sank, and he schooled his expression. _This is it. This is the catch_.

“I want you to help out in my lower level classes next term, as well, and I want you to accept a recommendation from me to assist me in my Transfigurations classes next year, and, assuming you don’t muck it up spectacularly – which I’m certain you won’t, so stop worrying, Mister Malfoy – to consider accepting the role of full Professor when I retire. I’ll still be around, of course, to help you in any way that you need, but I don’t foresee you having many difficulties.”

Draco stared at her, flabbergasted. “Not even with _this_?” he asked, when he found his voice, pushing his left sleeve up and revealing the ugly mark that still stained his skin.

McGonagall peered over her spectacles at it, then looked up to meet his eyes. “Mister Malfoy,” she said sternly, “you will find that there are very few of us who do not regret something we did in the war. It was _war_ , after all – and it is in the past. I know it is difficult for you, bearing the evidence of your mistakes visibly, but don’t let anyone tell you that you are less for it.”

Draco felt himself tearing up, and he struggled to hold onto his dignity. McGonagall smiled at him, drawing him into a startlingly fierce hug. “Go on, then,” she said, patting his back awkwardly. “I’m sure you’ve other classes to get to.”

Draco nodded, grateful for the chance to escape. He was almost at the door when McGonagall spoke again. “Oh, and Mister Malfoy?”

He turned back to meet her eyes, which twinkled mischievously at him. “Yes, Professor?”

“Do tell Mister Potter that I expect that essay to be _legible_ , would you? And tell Miss Granger that she’s had Liebold’s _Transfiguring the Elements_ for quite long enough, and I expect her to hand it over to you without making a fuss, as you’ll need to have access to it for your first project next term – which, incidentally, I highly recommend starting on now. Oh, and Benson’s _Water into Wine,_ as well.” She fixed him with a level gaze. “I shan’t go easy on you, Mister Malfoy, but I shan’t expect anything of you that I don’t expect of any other independent study student. And if I ever do, it’s merely that I think you’re capable of more.”

Draco grinned at her, nodding, and walked out of the classroom with a spring in his step that he hadn’t felt in years. For the first time since he’d realized what it truly meant to be a Death Eater, he felt like he had a future. And it. Was. Wonderful.


	2. I Need a Tutor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I, uh, didn't really intend for this to be longer than the one-shot I posted in September. But. I had an idea. (This is a real problem - my life would be so much *simpler* if I could just stop having these ideas!)
> 
> Anyway, I've changed the rating and whatnot since this has taken a somewhat sexier turn than expected. This chapter is as far as it will go, though - I mean, don't get all excited about future smut because... you'll be disappointed. There are plenty of Drarry fics out there for you, but this one ain't it. Or something.
> 
> Not sure how much further I'll take this, or how often I'll update, seeing as NanoWrimo is starting...pretty much now. Certainly not every day. 
> 
> Oh, and Happy Halloween, guys! <3

Draco was brooding.

He sat on his bed, in his tiny room, shut away from the nosy questions and hostile glares, scowling at the blank wall and kicking his feet restlessly against the bed-frame.

Thunk. Thunk-Thunk. Thunk.

The outright bullying had stopped, at least. He couldn’t be too grateful, though - he was sure Potter had had a hand in it. It was so like him, sticking his do-gooder nose in everyone’s business. In any case, the bullying had been replaced with indifference. Not the casual indifference that might include a cautious ‘hello,’ a tentative smile, hell, he’d even take a homework question. They shut him out, so he shut himself in. That way, he could pretend it was his choice, and retain a little dignity, which was the only thing he really had left.

He’d finally worked up the courage to ask Granger for the transfigurations books he needed, and had been brushed off as he’d expected. He’d hoped she’d give them to him without forcing him to involve McGonagall, but that was looking less and less likely. He rubbed his eyes, forcing back frustrated tears. He’d only come back this year because it had been a condition the Wizengamot had set on his pardon. He still couldn’t quite believe that Harry fucking Potter had breezed into his family’s trials, and successfully argued that Draco and Mother should go free. Well, mostly free. Mother was confined to the Manor, and Draco was required to return to Hogwarts to complete his schooling. Father had been sent to Azkaban anyway, but… well. It wasn’t like he didn’t deserve it. Draco and Mother had taken the news philosophically, and then spent the summer scrubbing the Manor, inside and out, with magic and by hand, and ridding it of everything that bore even a hint of dark magic. Father, if he ever got out of Azkaban, would likely die of apoplexy when he saw his study, but… they did it anyway. They had had their fill of dark magic.

Eighth year was shaping up to be a disaster. There had been some confusion when they first arrived, and there weren’t enough beds in the houses - except Slytherin, but Draco tried not to think about the empty beds - and in the end, the castle had sprouted another tower especially for them. Draco still wasn’t sure what he thought about that. On the one hand, he was incredibly grateful not to have to sleep next to the empty beds that should have held his friends. On the other… he had even fewer friends here than he would have in Slytherin. Blaise and Pansy, less deeply involved in the war, had been given the option to attend Beauxbatons for their final year, and had jumped at the chance. Traitors. Draco was the lone Slytherin eighth-year here, and he hated it. The professors didn’t seem to know what to do with the returning eighth years, changed and marked by war, revered or bitter. Or, in Harry Potter’s case, revered _and_ bitter.

Draco sighed, flopping back on the bed. He did _not_ want to think about Potter.

Thunk.

Draco jolted upright, hand automatically reaching for his wand.

Thunk.

Oh. The door. He relaxed, but kept his wand out, held loosely in his fingers.

“I’m coming!” he called, “hang on.” He straightened his robe, glanced in the mirror that hung over the back of his door, checking to be sure the tears he’d been holding in all afternoon didn’t show.

Thunk.

Draco rolled his eyes. “What do you want—“ he sighed, as he swung the door open, then he looked at his visitor, and the sentence stuttered to a halt. “Er, Potter?” he finished, lamely.

“Malfoy.” Harry stared at him, impassive, expressionless mask firmly in place.

Draco recovered his sarcasm and raised one eyebrow. “Are you lost?”

“No.”

Draco felt the false bravado whoosh out of him. He sighed, relaxing his ramrod-straight posture and slumping against the doorframe. “So… Why are you here?”

Potter bent down, hefted a stack of books into his arms, and held them out to Draco. “Brought you these.”

Draco caught his breath. ‘These’ were the two books McGonagall had told him to ask Granger for, and the others on Transfigurations that he’d not read yet - including the ones Madam Pince had marked as “missing.”

He coughed to cover his confusion and pulled the familiar cloak of snark back around himself. He raised both eyebrows this time. “So. You’re Granger’s errand-boy, now?” He expected a reaction - was hoping for one. He could _always_ get a reaction out of Potter. But this time he was disappointed.

Potter shrugged easily. “When it suits me.”

They stared impassively at one another for a moment, until Draco decided it was too much effort and deflated again. “Not that I care,” he said, scowling, “because I _don’t_ , but… _why?_ Are you going to hex me?” He stepped back, suddenly suspicious.

Potter snorted. “Hardly.”

Draco raised his eyebrow again, because it was easier than searching for the words he wanted. He _hated_ being off-balance, and Potter was being particularly trying.

Potter understood. As usual. “She didn’t want to come, I wanted to get away from her and Ron and their excessive PDA, and…”

“And?” Draco was not curious. He was _not._

“I need a tutor.”

Draco’s mouth fell open, and he closed it with a click. When he felt certain he could control it, he said the only thing he could think of. “A tutor.”

Harry looked around the empty corridor. It was too early for the eighth-years to be going to bed - they were all still lounging about in the common room. “Is there an echo in here, Malfoy? Or did part of your brain go missing, during the war?”

“Oh, har, har.” Draco rolled his eyes. “What do you need a tutor for, Potter?”

He swept a hand through his messy curls, briefly exposing the lightning-bolt scar. “Transfigurations. Also, Potions.”

“Me,” Draco said, incredulous.

“Mm.”

“…OK, I guess.” He sighed. “I can’t believe I’m doing this, but… sure. But you’re actually going to have to work, Potter. I’m not just going to let you copy my work and call it your own.”

“I know.”

Draco didn’t think he was imagining that Potter’s smile had turned sheepish. “Good. Um. Fine. When would you like to—“

“I’m free now.”

“Ah. Right. Let me, ah, we’ll just—“

“Your room is fine.”

Potter brushed past Draco and into his room, leaving Draco staring, flabbergasted, after him.

“Didn’t your mother teach you to ask permission to enter someone’s room, Potter?”

He realized his mistake as soon as the words left his mouth.

Potter’s back tensed for a moment, his hands clenched into fists, then all the tension seemed to drain out of him. “Apparently not,” he said quietly, back to Draco.

“Potter, look,” Draco said, words stumbling over one another as he rushed to get them out, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—“

Potter shrugged, still not looking at him. “Don’t worry about it. Funny enough, I believe you.” He turned, a small smile teasing the edges of his lips. “Where should I put these?”

Draco remembered the stack of no-doubt quite heavy books, and rushed to take some from him. “Oh. Here.” He set the ones he’d managed to snag from Potter’s arms onto the cleared corner of his desk, and Potter followed suit.

“It’s funny, Malfoy,” Potter said, smirking as he turned to him, “but I expected your desk to be a lot neater.” He looked pointedly at the stacks of scribbled-on papers, more of which were tacked messily on the wall above the desk, the assortment of quills and brushes jammed into a jar far too small to hold them, the jumble of ink bottles, and the pack of pencils that had come open, spilling in a pastel rainbow across his desk.

Draco sighed. “It is, usually. I’ve been working on something, and…”

He trailed off, gesturing vaguely, at a loss to explain the crazed mania that gripped his brain when he was in the throes of creative passion, how it was impossible to be neat and tidy until after he’d bled himself dry and tamed the beast inside him.

Potter smiled, a smile that held secrets and gave away none. “I know. I do it too.” He turned away, studying a sketch Draco had done last week, staring out over the lake as the sun sank below the horizon and the colors bled out of the world.

Draco shook his head, feeling more off-balance than ever. “Um. Ok. So… where should we start?”

Potter shrugged. “Today’s transfiguration?”

Draco stared at him. “Potter… You did that one perfectly in class. I _saw_ you.”

He didn’t remember until he’d said it that he sat in front of Potter. He closed his eyes, mentally cursing, waiting for the hex, or at the very least an angry tirade.

After a moment, he cracked open one eye to find Potter giving him a crooked smile.

Draco scowled at him. “What?”

“Nothing.” Potter’s smile turned into a smirk.

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a Potter-induced headache forming. He wondered idly what Madam Pomfrey would say, if he went to her for a pain potion, and told her that.

“ _Why_ do you need me to tutor you, then, if you don’t actually need help?”

Potter opened his mouth, then closed it again. Frowned. “It’s… I thought you would accept it more easily than the real reason. I didn’t count on you watching me.” The shadow of the smirk reappeared.

“Which is?”

He sighed. “I don’t want to be an auror. I know that’s what everyone expects of me. But… I’m done killing dark wizards. I’ve done what they wanted of me. I’ve seen more blood -“ he looked at his hands - “spilt more blood than I could ever atone for. Why would I want to go into something that would force me to do it all over again?”

Draco stared at him as Potter scrubbed his hair into further disarray, expression sheepish. He’d had no idea Potter felt that way - though he could certainly understand it. It had been a mystery to him why the Boy Who Lived would want to go into the auror program. And here was the answer - it seemed that he didn’t. But everyone else expected it.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked carefully

“Well, I wanted to get away from Ron and Hermione, for one.”

“They didn’t realize that you don’t actually need help?”

Potter shrugged again. “I do need help, in Potions, at least. And I need help figuring out what I want to do. And I wanted to get to know you better. I feel like I missed an important chance, when I refused your hand that day.”

Draco stared. Potter was full of revelations today, it seemed.

“O…K. All right. We’ll start with the easy questions. First, what do you like?”

Potter held his empty hands out in front of him, turning them over, studying them. “Dunno. Never had occasion to find out.”

Draco massaged his temples “This is going to take a while. What do I get out of it?”

“Besides the pleasure of my company?” The crooked grin was back. “I’ll throw my weight around when you need it, help you get what you want.”

Draco stared. “Anything?”

Potter nodded.

“That’s a dangerous promise to make to a man like me, Potter.” Draco glanced significantly at left wrist, covered right now by the sleeve of his school shirt.

“Call me Harry. And… I’m not worried. I’ve been watching you, too, Draco.”

Oh. He swallowed, forced a note of bravado into his tone. “Like what you see?”

Harry’s smile turned sharper, dangerous.

“Yes.”

He stood, suddenly, stalking across the room toward Draco, who backed slowly away from the intense expression on Harry’s face.

“Uh, Harry, what are you—“

He hit the wall with a quiet thunk, pressed his palms flat against the cool stones. He was on fire, helpless before those green eyes, and Harry kept moving forward, pressing their bodies together. Draco let out an embarrassing noise halfway between a sigh and a whimper as Harry leaned in and trailed fiery kisses along Draco’s jaw and down his neck.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this,” he muttered between kisses.

Draco’s breath hitched. “Harry - ah - what about…about Girl-Weasley?”

Harry snorted against his neck. “What about her? We broke up when I left to hunt the Horcruxes - never got back together.”

“Wh-why?”

Harry leaned back to look intently into Draco’s eyes. “I did some thinking, after the war, that I’d been putting off. I realized that I wanted something else. _Someone_ else.”

“Me?” it was barely a whisper. Harry smiled.

“Yes.”

He moved to return to kissing Draco’s neck, but Draco pressed one hand against his chest, holding him in place.

“Harry. Wait.”

He pouted. “You don’t want me?”

“I do - Merlin, I do. But… Harry. This is… this is too fast. I can’t - I need —“

“What do you need, Draco?”

Harry didn’t move closer, but he did roll his hips slightly, just enough to send blood rushing from Draco’s brain; sparkles danced around the edges of his vision.

“Oh, Harry - _Merlin_ , stop.”

Harry stopped, searched Draco’s eyes intently, then moved back until they were no longer touching. “All right.”

Draco nearly cried as the cold air hit his body, but he needed to say this.

“Harry; it’s not that I don’t want you, but… this is too fast. I need - I need to trust you first. I can’t do this if it’s just a one-time thing for you, if your heart’s not in it.”

Harry nodded, surprisingly not upset.

Draco bit his lip. “Sorry to disappoint you…”

“I can’t say that I’m surprised. Disappointed… not really. I mean,” the crooked grin made another appearance, “a little. But I want more than that too. I can wait.”

He looked toward the door reluctantly. “I should probably go.”

Draco took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. “Yes.”

Harry nodded. He paused at the door. “Enjoy your ‘light reading’”

Draco felt a ridiculous smile blooming on his face. “Mm. Oh, and Harry?”

“Yes?”

“I’ll see if Slughorn will let us use the Potions classroom. And before we get together next time, I want you to do something for me.”

“Yes?”

“Think back over the things we’ve learned - in classes and out of them - and write down at least five things that you enjoyed. Not that you enjoyed the result of, or felt like it was “good” or “right” - five things that you enjoyed _doing_.”

Harry nodded. “I’ll see you later, Draco.”

The door clicked shut behind him, and Draco threw himself onto his bed with a groan. This was either going to be the best thing he’d ever done, or a complete fucking disaster. 


	3. Uneasy Attraction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: My apologies for taking so long to update this. I struggled with this chapter, and figuring out how I want this story to go. At the same time, I've been struggling with worsening depression, being sick (for weeks!) and an unexpected obsession with Yuri!!! On Ice. That last one isn't much of an excuse, but... yeah. My brain was hijacked by that show, and I've posted a few short Otayuri oneshots. In case any of you have *also* become recently obsessed. I hope to update more quickly now, but I won't promise (because then something else will crop up to keep me from writing).

“That almost made sense.”

Harry flashed Draco a brilliant smile, and Draco’s stomach jolted. They’d been meeting up in the Potions classroom after dinner for the better part of two weeks, now. Slughorn had denied Draco’s request to use the room, but had been _delighted and honored_ to let Harry use it. Draco had rolled his eyes but prudently bit his tongue - no sense in antagonizing the man after he’d agreed to what they wanted. He’d examined the sour feeling in his gut later, wondering why his reaction was so strong - he’d expected _his_ request to be refused, after all - and was surprised to find that, when it came down to it, he didn’t actually like using Harry’s fame to get the things he wanted. Huh. He filed the realization away for further thought.

Neither Harry nor Draco could play quidditch this year - McGonagall having deemed it unfair to the lower years should the eighth-years compete - and so had no other demands on their evenings. Draco had been surprised to find that he no longer minded being barred from quidditch - and was reluctant to admit, even to himself, that the reason for that was currently sitting beside him, just a hair too close for Draco’s comfort, alternately tapping his quill on the desk and running his fingers through his messier-than-usual hair as he considered the problem before him.

They’d quickly discovered that Harry’s problems in Potions lay almost wholly in a tendency to be lax with his measurements - a few evenings of slow, focused precision and a brilliant analogy to cooking and baking, which Harry was clearly quite experienced at, and just as clearly unwilling to talk about - soon cured his laziness, and they’d moved on to subjects both found more interesting.

Harry proved a quick study at Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, and Draco wondered aloud why Harry had never taken them.

He shrugged. “Never saw the need - and it never occurred to me that I might _like_ them. Ron was very vocal about his dislike for them.”

Draco frowned. “But, Granger takes them.”

Harry shrugged again. “Hermione’s bloody brilliant.”

“And you’re not?” Draco took offense to this, though he wasn’t sure quite why.

Harry snorted. “Sure. At dying. And sacrificing myself. And quidditch, for some reason. And cooking and cleaning,” he added, under his breath. Draco pretended he hadn’t heard.

Granger stared at Harry, shocked speechless, when he fell into step between her and Draco the next day, as they walked to Arithmancy. She frowned when he did the same for Ancient Runes, but didn’t comment.

Once he demonstrated his competence she - and the rest of the class - accepted his presence without question. Draco felt a hot flicker of triumph warm him when Harry chose to partner with him instead of Granger for assignments. But, aside from a few speculative glances the first few times, even that became routine.

It was… disturbing, really, how quickly Harry managed to insinuate himself into Draco’s routine, until Draco realized, some few weeks later, that they were rarely apart.

But, with all that, Harry didn’t make a single advance on Draco. It was unnerving. Every time Harry sat just a little too close in class, every time his breath whispered over Draco’s cheek as Harry whispered a snide remark in his ear, every time their hands accidentally-or-maybe-not brushed while preparing ingredients, Draco’s pulse would jump in anticipation. But then Harry would lean back, or move his hand, and the moment would be gone. They never acknowledged these moments, and Draco was beginning to wonder if he’d imagined the whole thing - if maybe Harry hadn’t actually wanted him at all.

* * *

“Oops, sorry.”

Draco looked up, annoyed, only to feel his annoyance fizzle away at the sight of Harry at his elbow. He looked back at the spoiled ginger root - useless now that his neat cuts had been marred by the jagged slash left when Harry had bumped him - and sighed.

“Never mind, Harry. Just… fetch some more of these, will you? I need to keep an eye on the potion.”

He half expected an indignant protest, but Harry nodded easily. “Yeah, all right. Back in a sec.”

Draco’s wand timer chimed, reminding him that he had to hurry. This was a relatively simple potion, but the timing was crucial. He stirred the potion seventeen times anti-clockwise, counting under his breath and striving to make his pace as even as possible. The potion gave a sullen hiss and slowly changed from pea green sludge to a sort of burnt-carrot goo.

Draco checked his book, then grimaced and leaned over the cauldron. His nose wrinkled and his eyes watered as he took a cautious sniff. Yes, that was how it was supposed to smell. He leaned back quickly, trying not to gag.

Harry appeared at his elbow with the replacement ginger root and chopped it into precise cubes with ruthless efficiency. Draco was impressed despite his lingering annoyance.

“Where did you learn to do that?” he asked, as he stirred, clockwise this time, and Harry dropped in a single cube with every rotation.

Harry swept damp hair off his forehead, looking up at Draco in surprise. “My Aunt,” he said.

He added the last piece and smoothly lifted the stirring rod from Draco’s fingers, brushing the tips of his fingers delicately over his palm. Then he was stirring, brow furrowed as he concentrated, and Draco sat back to watch, face warm, the skin of his hand tingling. He half expected Harry to follow the touch with more flirting, or a sly innuendo, or even a direct assault, like he had the other night. Instead, Harry completed the potion, checked it against the text for accuracy - it was perfect - and bottled it. Normally, they would keep only a sample and vanish the rest, but this strengthening potion had been brewed perfectly and Madam Pomfrey could always use more. They’d drop it by her office tomorrow on the way to class.

“Excellent work, Harry,” Draco said softly, surprising both of them.

Harry gaped at him for a moment, then grinned and took a small bow. “Why, thank you, Malfoy.”

Draco flicked Harry’s forehead as he slipped past him on his way to return the unused supplies to the store cupboard. Harry just smiled.

“Where are you off to now?” Draco asked, using the pretense of packing his bag to hide his blush.

Harry rolled his eyes. “The common room, I suppose. Though, if Ron and ‘Mione are sucking face in there like normal, I’ll probably head straight to bed.” He grimaced. “I love them, I do, but _Merlin_ , they’re disgustingly in love.”

Draco snorted. “Thought you three were thick as thieves?”

Harry shrugged. “We were. But, now they’re too busy with one another to have much time for me.”

“You could hang out with me,” Draco offered hesitantly, eyes firmly fixed on his bag. “If you’re not ready for bed, that is. And you don’t feel like hanging out in the common room. I don’t spend much time there either…” He trailed off awkwardly, glancing hopefully through his lashes at Harry and chewing on the inside of his cheek. He hadn’t asked Harry to spend time with him outside of their tutoring sessions. And Harry had never asked him. He’d thought he wanted to be friends - or more? - But lately he’d not given any indication of that. Maybe Draco had imagined it all, and the attempted seduction had merely been a cruel joke. He wouldn’t have considered Harry capable of such a thing, but he’d come to see that, for a Gryffindor, Harry had a surprising number of Slytherin qualities. And he’d proved an ability to make cruel jokes about their classmates as well - even about Granger and her Weasel.

He thought he saw a flicker of indecision - of _want_ \- on Harry’s face, and felt a matching flick of hope spring to life inside, but then Harry’s expression flattened and he shook his head.

“Thanks, but I’d better sleep. I’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

He turned and slipped out of the classroom, leaving Draco standing awkwardly by their table, feeling confused and a little lost. And a lot turned on, though he tried to ignore that. Especially since he seemed to be the only one to feel that way. He trudged up to bed, trying not to notice Harry laughing with the Weaselette in the common room. Harry didn’t have to justify himself to Draco, not even to tell him what he’d be doing. And he could have changed his mind - Granger and her Weasel weren’t in evidence. Draco felt his stomach swooping uncomfortably anyway, as he trudged up the stairs, pointedly looking away from harry so as not to accidentally catch his eye. He didn’t know what he’d find there if he did, and he didn’t want to.

He’d planned to write to his mother this evening, but he was suddenly too tired. He dropped his bag at the end of his bed and slumped across it, too tired even to undress.

His sleep that night was restless, interrupted by uneasy dreams and a vague foreboding that settled heavily into his stomach. It was still there when he awoke, groggy and feeling as if he’d not actually slept at all.


	4. Thestrals

Things didn’t improve as the weeks progressed. Harry settled into Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, improved drastically in Transfigurations (now that he was actually trying), and even his Potions scores improved. But, if anything, he was more distant. Even the maybe-or-maybe-not-accidental hand brushes stopped.

Draco had trouble focusing in class and tutoring sessions; he was a ball of energy wound so tight he felt ready to explode.

He sat in Transfigurations on a mild day in mid-October, jittering his leg nervously, biting the end of his quill ragged, and not thinking about their assignment at all. He ignored the teacup sitting abandoned on the top of his desk, even as his classmates’ sprouted feathers or fur or tendrils and leaves, as their preferences dictated. He was entirely too busy pondering the painfully obvious fact that he wanted _more_ from Harry than he’d dared imagine… and that Harry might not actually feel the same way.

A delicate cough and the pointed tapping of McGonagall’s shoe eventually penetrated the haze of his anxiety, and he startled to attention, fumbling to catch the teacup that his elbow had sent skittering.

McGonagall stopped it with a flick of her wand, never taking her eyes from Draco’s.

“Mister Malfoy,” she said, peering sternly down at him over the top of her glasses, “what on _Earth_ do you think you’re doing?”

He gulped. “I - that is —“

She sighed, softening her tone. “See me after class, Mister Malfoy.” She turned to walk away, shaking her head, then turned back. “And do _attempt_ to transfigure your teacup.”

Draco glared at the delicately patterned china as he listened to her heels click away, debating just how ugly he could make it in the time that was left to him. As he concentrated on it, letting everything else fall away but the teacup before him and the image of what he wanted it to become, his anger melted away. When he looked up, wiping a sheen of sweat off his brow - if he hadn’t known better, he would have thought the teacup had been fighting the change, will all the willpower he’d had to throw behind the spell - the teacup had been replaced by a tiny model of one of the coaches that brought them to Hogwarts, complete with a tiny Thestral. He reached out a shaky finger and absently petted it. It nuzzled its head up against his finger, obviously pleased with the attention.

The bell rang then, signaling the end of class.

“Leave your transfigured teacups on your desk, please,” McGonagall called out over the sudden clamor of books being shoved into bags and desks siding across the stone floor. “Tomorrow we will be discussing your results as a class, and then reversing the spell. And, Mister Longbottom, a _petrificus_ _totalis_ , please, so that I don’t have to chase that…thing around the room.” She removed her glasses and massaged her temples with a put-upon sigh.

Draco didn’t even bother to look over to see what monstrosity Longbottom had managed - he was suddenly too full of apprehension to see anything but the miniature Thestral, and even then his vision was tinted red and shimmery about the edges. The Thestral whinnied and butted up against his finger, distracting him. The red tint receded, and he shakily packed up his books.

“Draco,” McGonagall said softly.

He looked up and saw that they were alone in the room. She only ever called him ‘Draco’ in private, and usually it gave him a warm glow of pride. Today it just made his stomach churn.

“Yes, Professor?” He tried to keep the tremor out of his voice, but suspected that he didn’t really succeed. When he looked up, McGonagall was frowning.

“Draco,” she said, more firmly, “I’m not going to punish you, if that’s what you’re worried about. Now, come here. And bring your teacup with you - I want to take a closer look at it.”

He gulped, but gingerly maneuvered the coach and Thestral into his palm and carried both to her desk, wordlessly handing them to her. For a long moment, she said nothing, studying the Thestral intently. When she looked up again, her smile was warm.

“This is astonishing, Draco. I’ve never seen anyone attempt a Thestral before, and your attention to detail is astounding.” Her smile dimmed slightly. “You’ve spent a great deal of time with them this year, then, to have such an…accurate image of them to draw from.”

He sighed. He’d hoped to keep that as his secret. “Yes, I - they’re good company. Hagrid was thrilled to have help with them, and I find them… peaceful.” He shrugged, then met her eye, afraid she would tell him to stop. “It doesn’t interfere with my studies, I promise, and Hagrid said it was all right, and —“

“Relax, Draco. Contrary to what you seem to believe, I don’t actually _want_ to get you in trouble. You’re a good student, probably the most promising Transfigurations student I’ve had the pleasure of teaching.”

She paused, and he felt his shoulders relaxing and a pleasant warmth radiating out from his stomach at the praise.

“Now,” she continued, “the reason I asked you to stay behind today is that I’m worried about you. Your grades have been slipping lately, in all your classes, and both Horace and Filius tell me that you’ve been increasingly distracted. Like you were just a few minutes ago. Is there something I should know about, Draco?”

She pursed her lips and frowned at him, waiting for an answer that he _really_ didn’t want to give. Couldn’t give. It was true - he _was_ distracted, and his grades _were_ slipping. He just couldn’t concentrate with Harry nearby any more. Not that he’d ever been able to, really - but now it was a thousand times worse. He bit his lip. “I’m sorry, Professor,” he started meekly, eyes trained on the tiny Thestral that still rested in her upturned palm. “I —“

“Draco,” she interrupted, “I’m not interested in your apologies. What I _am_ interested in, however, is your reason. I suspect that it’s something to do with your recent tutoring sessions with Mister Potter, yes?”

Draco felt his cheeks flushing. “Er—“

“As I thought,” she said briskly. “Now. You really ought to know this by now, but Mister Potter enjoys far too much notoriety in this school. I can’t do anything about that, much as I’d like to - it’s hardly good for the boy, but I _can_ tell you that his marks have improved considerably since you agreed to tutor him.”

Draco felt a warm glow of pride at that - Harry _had_ improved, but it was nice to be acknowledged for his part in it - until McGonagall added tartly “do make sure, Draco, that Mister Potter is doing the work to deserve it.”

Draco’s eyes snapped up to meet hers, and he scowled. “I’ll have you know that Harry _is_ doing the work for it - he deserves those marks. Surely you don’t think I’m doing the git’s work _for_ him? I have more standards than that, even if I _was_ forced to take the Mark!”

He stopped, breathing heavily, when he noticed McGonagall’s amused smile.

“Good,” she said simply.

Draco frowned. “You knew.”

She eyed him over her glasses. “While Mr. Potter’s marks have shown significant improvement, they are still nowhere near your caliber, Draco. I just wanted to see if _you_ knew it.”

He looked down again, embarrassed and pleased. “Oh.”

“Indeed. Now, if I may offer one final piece of advice?”

Draco nodded, biting his lip.

“Don’t let him push you around, Draco. I don’t know exactly what’s going on between the two of you, but I’ve seen the way you look at one another lately. Stand up for yourself. Go after what you want with your head held high - you deserve happiness just as much as any of the rest of us, Mark or no Mark.”

He blinked at her, astonished.

“Oh, go on with you,” she said, amused. “I am human, you know. _Despite_ what that idiotic Board thinks. Speaking of the Board, I’ve a meeting soon with one of their esteemed leaders, so if there’s nothing else…”

Draco nodded, still feeling as if the ground was shaky beneath his feet, and shouldered his bag.

“Oh, and by the way,” she called, as he was almost out the door.

He turned back resignedly. “Yes, Professor?”

“Tell Mister Potter, if you will, that there are more careers out there than Auror - some that he would no doubt be quite good at.”

She winked and turned back to the tiny Thestral in her palm, setting it gently on the surface of her desk. He heard her shuffling papers and muttering unflattering remarks about idiots who sit on Ministry Boards - to herself or the Thestral, he wasn’t sure - before he closed the door behind him.

* * *

Draco walked absentmindedly toward his room, pondering her words. He’d given Harry more than enough time to make an advance on him. He’d tried making his own advances, but - maybe he’d not been clear enough? He frowned, shaking his head. Well, whether Harry had misunderstood or changed his mind, Draco wasn’t going to just wait around for him forever. There _were_ others he suspected might have an interest in him, now that Harry’s friendship had eased his way back into the social circle of the eighth years. Finch-Fletchly had been eying him rather blatantly the other night… not that he had much of an interest in the Hufflepuff, but then he didn’t know him all that well. Maybe he should give it a shot. It might spur Harry into action, if he was still interested, and if it didn’t… well. It might be distracting, anyway.

He nodded, feeling suddenly more confident. He’d give this thing with Harry one more shot, and if Harry refused him again…

A hand reached out of a dark alcove as he passed it absentmindedly and grabbed his arm, yanking him abruptly out of the deserted hallway.

Draco’s wand was in his hand, digging into his assailant’s throat before he could think, a curse waiting on the tip of his tongue.

Harry froze, then dropped his arm and raised both hands slowly over his head. Draco’s arm trembled and his vision blurred.

“Um, Draco? Can you put that away, please?”

“What?” He blinked, then realized that his wand was still digging into Harry’s throat. It looked painful. “Oh.” He stowed his wand, cheeks heating, hoping it didn’t show in the dim light. “Sorry. Reflex. I —“

Harry smiled, then winced as he rubbed his throat. “It’s all right. I shouldn’t have grabbed you. I forget, sometimes, that I’m not the only one with scars.”

Draco’s eyes snapped up to Harry’s forehead, then traveled the length of him appreciatively. The adrenaline fizzing through his body lent him the courage to step forward, pressing Harry back against the wall. “Now that you’ve got me in here…”

Harry’s breath hitched audibly and he gulped. Draco grinned. Two could play this game.

A group of students interrupted them, chattering loudly as they passed the alcove. They were probably on the way to lunch, Draco thought distantly. He and Harry would be missed, even if they weren’t noticed…

He stepped back, instantly regretting the loss of Harry’s warmth as the cool air rushed over him. “Not here.” He stepped back into the light of the passageway, then paused and turned his head. “You know the hollow tree by the lake?”

“Yeah?” Harry’s breath was still a bit ragged.

“Meet me there at lunch.”

“Draco —"

He winked and slipped into the corridor.

* * *

Draco settled more comfortably against the tree, shifting to dislodge the stick digging into his left shoulder, and sighed. He hadn’t planned on bringing Luna along on what was supposed to be a romantic rendezvous, but she’d appeared beside him as he left the kitchens with his hastily-prepared picnic lunch and skipped along next to him as he’d walked outside, blithely ignoring all his attempts to politely tell her to go away. He resigned himself to a lunch full of inane chatter and barely-concealed sexual tension. He’d just have to corner Harry later. Maybe he could grab him on the way to dinner…

“Draco?”

“Hmmm? Sorry, what?”

Luna poked his nose again, eyes crinkling in mirth. “Distracted, are you? Don’t worry - Harry will be here soon.”

He spluttered. “I - what - no—“

She ignored him. “That’s why I came out here with you, you know.”

“You decided to play chaperone?” He raised an incredulous eyebrow. “I’m flattered, truly, but you do know that I’m older than you, right?”

She giggled. “No, silly. I wanted to ask you two to go with me to Hogsmead this weekend. Well, with _us_ , I suppose. Ginny and I.”

“What, like a double date?”

“Exactly like.” She nibbled at her sandwich, looking decidedly pleased with herself. “It’ll be fun.”

Draco wasn’t so sure. “Luna…” he said slowly, “are you… are you sure Girl-Weasley wants you for _you_? She’s not just using you to get to Harry?” He couldn’t get the image of Harry and the Weaselette, curled up and laughing together in one of the big chairs by the fire in the common room, out of his head.

Luna smiled, showing rather too many teeth. “I’m sure. Do you remember what happened to the last girl who tried to use me to get to Harry?”

He frowned. “Er, no?”

“Exactly.” She smiled beatifically and went back to braiding the daisy chain she’d abandoned in favor of the sandwich.

Draco stared, flummoxed. She seemed to be implying… his brain skittered away from the thought. Luna hadn’t _had_ a girlfriend before. Had she? He hadn’t really known her very well before the Death Eaters had locked her in his parents’ wine cellar, but…

He started as a shadow fell over him, and Harry plopped down to lounge on the grass beside them. “Don’t question it,” he advised, smiling at Luna. “Whatever it is. I find that’s best, where Luna’s concerned.”

“Why, thank you, Harry,” she said, not looking up from the intricate braid she was weaving. “That’s very sweet of you. And very wise.”

The Weaselette dropped down between them, sprawling happily on the grass and wiggling her bare toes. “Oh, that feels nice. What did I miss?”

“Nothing much,” Luna said cheerfully. “Just that Draco is worried that you’re just using me to get to Harry.”

“Is that all?” the Weaselette grinned. “Don’t worry Draco - you’re safe from me, I assure you. No offense, Harry, but you were a shit boyfriend.”

He waved it away easily. “None taken. I kind of was.”

They smiled at one another, and then the Weaselette looked around to make sure they were alone before leaning over to peck Luna on the lips. “Hey, can you boys cover for us, if anyone comes looking for us?” she asked, gripping Luna’s hands and tugging her to her feet.

Harry laughed. “Go on with you - if anybody asks, we’ll make something up.”

Draco found his voice in time to add “we never saw you.”

Luna bent down to snag the flower crown and set it gently on the Weaselette’s brow. She turned to grin over her shoulder at them as she and the Weaselette skipped off, hand in hand, toward the Forbidden Forest. “Thanks boys! We’ll see you on Saturday!”

“Saturday?” Harry asked, eyes still on the girls.

“Oh,” Draco laughed, embarrassed. “They, er, want us to go with them to Hogsmead on Saturday. A double-date kind of thing.”

“Hmm,” Harry said absently. “That might be nice.” He turned to Draco as soon as the girls were out of sight. “Fucking finally. So, where were we…”

Draco leaned in to kiss him, but just as their lips touched, the chiming of the bell echoed across the grounds. Harry pulled back, swearing, which made Draco laugh, even though he was just as frustrated.

“Can’t we skip class?” Harry whined, as Draco started to pack up the remainder of the picnic.

Draco scowled at him. “You can skip if you like. I can’t afford to.” Then he frowned. “What about them?” He waved in the direction the girls had disappeared.

Harry sighed. “Pretty sure they’ve got this period free. Anyway, I wouldn’t put it past either of them to skip class. Come on, then.” He levered himself to his feet, holding out a hand to Draco.

Draco bit his lip as he allowed Harry to draw him up. “We’ll continue this later, though, yeah?”

Harry grinned at him. “Oh, yes. You can be sure of that.”


	5. Cherry Scones and Crabapples

Draco woke early on Saturday. Truth be told, he’d hardly slept. He still couldn’t believe that he would be going on a date that afternoon. A date. With Harry Potter. His vision started to go fuzzy, and he held his breath, trying to slow his racing heart. It wasn’t a big deal. The Weaselette and Luna would be there, after all. And they weren’t telling anyone it was a date, since none of them were ready to come out. So… it wasn’t a _real_ date, exactly. Just…

He’d never been on a date before. What was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to do? Oh, Salazar. What was he supposed to _wear_????

OK. Calm down. Get a grip.

He had hours before they were supposed to meet. He couldn’t just sit here - he’d go mad. So. Right. He’d pick out his outfit now, so he could avoid stressing about it later, and do what he always did now when he got anxious.

Twenty minutes later, he stood outside Hagrid’s door, hand poised to knock. He was vibrating with nervous energy - he _needed_ this, but… while Hagrid was used to him stopping by at odd hours, he’d never visited this early before. Would he even be awake? The sun hadn’t even properly risen - the world was a silent watercolor, washed in pale dawn light. Draco felt paralyzed by indecision. He didn’t want to wake Hagrid, didn’t want to jeopardize his welcome here, and the one anxiety relief he had found, but he couldn’t imagine walking back to the castle _now_.

A shrill whistle shattered the predawn stillness, and Draco jumped.

“Oi there, Malfoy!” He turned, the tense line of his shoulders slowly relaxing, to see Hagrid striding out of the forest.

“Hagrid.” He nodded, the energy fizzing and crackling along his nerves making the movement jerky.

Hagrid squinted down at him as he approached. “You all right there, Malfoy? Yer looking’ a bit peaky-like.”

Draco snorted. “You could say that.”

“Well, don’t just stand there, lad - the door’s not gonna open itself, and I’m a wee bit tied up over here.”

“What do you —“ Draco frowned, suddenly noticing the awkward bundle in Hagrid’s arms. He was about to ask what was in it when the bundle started thrashing wildly. He jumped.

“The door, lad,” Hagrid grunted, as he struggled to keep his hold on the bundle. “The faster we get ‘er settled the better.”

“Right.” Draco hastily opened the door, stepping back and holding it wide for Hagrid, who nodded his thanks as he shuffled through the clutter that filled his small hut - more chaotic even than usual - and plopped the bundle down onto a pile of rags in the corner. Hagrid sighed as he fastened the latch on one of the cages Draco had helped him build over the past several weeks - the largest one, Draco noted apprehensively. The bundle was bigger than he’d realized, now that it wasn’t cradled against Hagrid’s oversized chest. Hagrid straightened up with a groan and an audible crack, then pulled a grimy rag from his pocket and mopped his brow.

“Well, now, Malfoy - now that’s done, care for a spot o’ tea? I’ve some scones here - fresh-baked; picked ‘em up this morning.”

Draco smiled. Hagrid, he had discovered, always kept a steady supply of sweets and pastries, and they were always delicious. Whenever Draco asked where he got them, he just smiled mysteriously and said “from the kitchen, lad - where else?”

Dubious origins or no, he’d never been able to turn down pastries, and scones were his favorite.

“D’you have cherry?” he asked, peering interestedly into the tin Hagrid kept in the center of his table.

“‘Course I do,” Hagrid said, looking wounded. “Can’t have scones without cherry, now can you? What sort of tea’ll you be wanting today?”

Draco eyed the tea cupboard. He only recognized a few of the packages, and many lacked labels entirely. Hagrid selected a small unmarked tin, scooped a generous amount of the contents into a battered yellow mug, and poured boiling water over the odd, lumpy…things, leaning over the mug to breathe in the steam and sighing happily. Draco wasn’t entirely certain that was technically “tea.” He wrinkled his nose as he caught a whiff of the steam, resolving to breathe shallowly, and picked a box mostly at random, lest Hagrid mistake his horrified fascination for interest. It wasn’t anything fancy - just plain black tea, and an inferior one at that. He delicately plucked a teabag from the box and deposited it in the least-chipped mug. Inferior - but recognizable - tea was still better than… whatever Hagrid was drinking.

The scones, as usual, were delicious. Curled into Hagrid’s spare chair, long fingers wrapped around his mug, plate of scones balanced on his knee, Draco felt himself start to relax. Hagrid asked after his week, listening with interest as Draco related Harry’s misadventures in Potions and the tricky but fascinating transfiguration problem McGonagall had set him. By the time he got to Luna’s bizarre proposition, the tea and butter and sugar had done their work.

Hagrid snorted out a laugh as he finished. “Better you than me, Malfoy,” he said, eyes crinkling at the edges. “Now,” he added, as he heaved himself to his feet, “I expect you’d like to visit your friends while you’re here?”

“If you don’t mind,” he said. “If I’ve time, that is.” He twisted in his chair to look at Hagrid’s clock, and was relieved to see that he still had a few hours before he was to meet the others. “Er, Hagrid,” he added, as he helped clear away the tea things, “I didn’t mean to keep you from your project…” he trailed off, glancing warily at the bundle in the corner. It had quieted down while they talked, and now seemed deceptively docile.

Hagrid shook his head. “Thank you, but no. She’ll be all right for now, I think. Just needed a warm, dry place to rest.”

Draco took a step toward the cage in the corner. “In that case, hadn’t you better unwrap…er…her for a bit?”

“No!” Hagrid said, alarm seeping into his voice, and Draco stilled instantly. If Hagrid was nervous about whatever-it-was, he had no intention of getting anywhere near it. ‘That is,” Hagrid said, “she’s not dangerous. Exactly. But it’s probably best to leave her be for now.”

Draco mentally ran down a list of dangerous creatures that Hagrid seemed likely to call “not dangerous - exactly.” It was a very short list.

“Right.” Hagrid clapped his hands together decisively. “Come on, then, Malfoy. Oh, and grab that basket on your way out - I found some treats for ‘em the other day. I saved ‘em ‘specially for your visit - thought you might like to be the one to give ‘em out.”

Draco peeked warily into the basket, smiling when he realized what was inside. “Thank you,” he said.

Hagrid waved his thanks away. “Don’t mention it. Crabapples is their favorite, is all, and I’ve not much use for ‘em, else.”

* * *

Hagrid stopped at the gate to the enclosure, tucked away in a small clearing in the Forbidden Forest, and raised two meaty fingers to his lips and whistled. Then he turned back the way they’d come. “I’d better get back,” he said, “Just drop the basket by my door on your way out.”

Draco nodded absently, attention fixed on the sky, where a handful of black shapes were floating gracefully down. He leaned on the fence, pillowing his head on his arms, as he watched the Thestrals drift gently down, landing without making a sound. His favorite, the leader of this herd, approached him first, whickering in his ear and then nuzzling up against his arms. He laughed, reaching out to oblige her by scratching her leathery muzzle. “Hello, old girl. How are you this fine morning?” He glanced around, then leaned in conspiratorially to whisper “I’ve brought you a treat today.” Her ears perked up with interest, and he laughed again, light and free. “Can I come inside?”

She nodded and stepped back, giving him room to open the gate.

“Thank you,” he said, bowing politely. Then he pulled the basket from behind his back and opened it with a flourish. The Thestrals crowded around, making interested noises and completely ignoring his presence. He moved back to lean on the fence, sliding down to the grass and making himself comfortable. For the next hour, he let all his worries and anxiety drift away, attention solely on the Thestrals dancing and playing in the shafts of morning light.

“I’m sorry I called you ugly the other day,” he said softly, thinking of his transfigured teacup, which McGonagall had insisted on keeping, just the way it was. “You’re not ugly, are you? You’re beautiful. You just have to look a little closer to see it, is all.”

The lead Thestral turned from watching the young ones prance, staring deep into his eyes for a moment. Draco held his breath, feeling as if his soul were being weighed. Then she bowed her head in a deep, graceful nod and turned away, calling out to her herd. The mournful, bell-like notes echoed around the small clearing as the herd spun in graceful circles and rose into the air.

Draco shaded his eyes with his hand and watched them until they disappeared from his sight, folded once more into one of the secret pockets of the Forbidden Forest. That was his theory, anyway. He’d asked Hagrid, after his first accidental encounter with them, where they went when they weren’t in the clearing.

“Oh, you, know, around,” was as much as he’d gotten in response. He still wasn’t sure if Hagrid didn’t know where they went, or simply didn’t want to say, but after some time spent with the man, he was inclined to think that it was the former. Hagrid couldn’t keep a secret if his life depended on it - especially if he had a drink or two in him - and he had a reverent respect for the Forest - one that had bled into Draco, somehow, over the past months of visits.

He brushed the grass off his robes, slung the basket over his arm, and wandered back toward the castle, feeling lighter than he had in days.

* * *

He realized, by the time he got back to his room, that he’d spent more time with the Thestrals than he’d intended, and he would now have to hurry to get ready in time to meet the others. It worked out, though, in the end, he decided, as he took the stairs two-at-a-time toward the courtyard where they’d agreed to meet - he’d not had time to second-guess his outfit or restyle his hair. As a result, the anxiety that had pooled so heavily in his bones earlier, making his feet feel leaden, hadn’t had time to settle back into him.

He almost collided with Harry and the Weaselette when he got to the courtyard, since they were rushing just as much, but from the opposite direction. Luna sat serenely by the fountain, sketchbook open on her lap and quill inexplicably holding back her hair. She raised her eyes from the drawing she’d been studying. “Ah, Draco, Harry, Ginny. There you are. I was beginning to wonder if I’d got the day wrong. It _is_ Saturday, isn’t it?”

Draco smiled. “Yes, it’s Saturday. We’re just all late, apparently. What are you drawing?”

Luna turned silver blue eyes up to him, startling him as always with the sharpness of her gaze. “Mmm. I was trying to draw a water nymph, but _she_ was being a tease. So I really didn’t get very far.” She closed the sketchbook with a snap and vanished it somewhere in her robes. “But now that you’re here, we should go get tea. And then… ice cream? She licked a finger, holding it up and frowning. Hmm. Perhaps not.” Her pale brows drew together in a frown. “And I was so looking forward to it.” Then her face cleared and she said brightly “Oh well. There’s always hot chocolate!”

Draco shook his head, biting back a grin, and held out his arm, years of pureblood training taking over. “My lady. Shall we?”

She grinned up at him, eyes sparkling as she dipped into an elegant curtsey and then slipped her arm through his. “But of course, kind sir. I would be honored.”

Harry looked helplessly at the Weaselette and she rolled her eyes and grabbed his hand, dragging him unceremoniously toward the gate. “Come on, idiot.”

Draco glanced at Luna, eyebrows raised, and found her wearing a similar expression. Then she dissolved in giggles and skipped after Harry, dragging Draco with her as he desperately tried not to laugh.


	6. Double Trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm sorry for the wait on this one, you guys! I hit some major writer's block, and had three weeks of my mother and my inlaws visiting, and worsening physical and mental health, and a couple of original short stories i was trying to finish... and you guys just want to get to the good stuff, I know. In any case, thanks for putting up with my erratic posting schedule. You should be happy to know that the final two chapters (7 and 8) are complete; I will post them Thursday and Saturday evening, respectively. And now... enjoy!

 Despite Draco's initial misgivings, the date was surprisingly fun – at first, anyway. The walk to Hogsmeade was brilliant – the sky was shockingly blue, the trees blazed with bursts of autumn color, and the sun warmed their backs. The two couples ambled along, in no particular hurry, joking and laughing, talking of nothing of import, gossiping about their fellow students' relationships and drama – everything they'd missed out on. The taste of teenage normalcy that the war had stolen from them was heady. Luna regaled them with stories of all the strange and bizarre things they'd missed about their peers; the Weaselette ranted about Quidditch. Harry and Draco mainly listened, sharing grins and leaning close to whisper snide remarks in one another's ear.

Soon, they were giggling, leaning against one another for support and weaving along the path, drunk with sunshine and laughter. Draco found he didn't care if they never made it into town. He would gladly give up the promised meal for the chance to stay out here, alone together, away from nosy, prying, judgmental eyes – where they could steal kisses and swing their clasped hands between them without fear of repercussions. It was peaceful. He felt light, and freer than he had in years.

Eventually, their complaining stomachs urged them into town, toward the lure of food. "Ooh! Let's go in here!" Luna dragged the Weaselette to the side, bouncing across the street toward a small restaurant with an incredibly tacky window display of pink hearts and roses.

"We are _not_ going to Madam Puddifoot's!" Draco stared, horrified, silently imploring the others to agree. Surely Harry would understand…

Harry bit his lip, indecisive. "Well…"

"Oh, come on," Luna insisted. "She has the best scones – you'll see." She dragged the Weaselette through the door, and Harry shrugged and turned to follow.

Draco rolled his eyes. _Tell me I'm not doing this,_ he grumbled to himself as he gave in and followed the others, sneering at the overly-frilly window display as he passed it. He was enveloped in a fragrant cloud of steam as he stepped through the doorway, and his stomach growled embarrassingly loudly. _Luna was right,_ he thought, _damn her. The food smells absolutely divine. She's never going to let me hear the end of this_.

They found an empty table in a quiet nook near the back, half-hidden behind a privacy curtain that had _far_ too many tassels. Draco looked around at the kitschy decor and knick-knacks in horror. There were more doilies scattered about than he'd ever seen – and that included in the home of his father's unfortunate Great-Aunt Bathilda. Luna – being Luna – declared that she rather liked it, and that was that.

The table was meant for two, but the Weaselette and Harry simply grabbed extra chairs from nearby tables and they all crowded close. It would have been romantic, with the lace and the candles, save for the constantly bumping knees and elbows and the sidelong glances from the servers as they bustled past.

Harry sat across from Draco, as they'd agreed on earlier; Luna and the Weaselette on either side. None of them was ready to come out yet, which was what made this double-date plan of Luna's so deviously brilliant. No one would bat an eye at Harry and the Weaselette, nor at Draco and Luna. Draco didn't like pretending – rather, he didn't like _Harry_ pretending. He didn't mind Luna – she was obliviously adorable as ever – but watching the Weaselette hanging on Harry's arm rankled. He hoped Luna knew what she was doing.

After a brief perusal of the menu, Luna announced that they would have one of everything, thank you. This had the added benefit of calming Madam Puddifoot's ire. It was far more than the four of them could possibly hope to eat, of course, and everything was delicious. Draco honestly couldn't find fault with any of it, which he reluctantly admitted.

Luna grinned around her bite of scone. "Told you so!"

He nudged her shoulder playfully, and then realized that they were drawing speculative glances from the other patrons. He folded his hands primly in his lap and refused to fidget. Which only brought back those dark months back home, when Voldemort himself had instructed him in "proper pureblood manners." He looked up imploringly, feeling the familiar veil of panic cloud his vision; Harry had just opened his mouth when a shadow fell over their table.

Draco looked up into the Weasel's furious eyes and rapidly reddening face and sank lower in his seat, hands clasped so tightly together his knuckles turned white.

"Harry!" Granger said brightly. "Ginny. Luna. Malfoy? Whatever are you all doing here?"

And there it was. Draco belatedly realized that they hadn't actually discussed what they would say if someone confronted them.

"We're on a date, of course!" Luna said, dreamy as ever. "It's wonderful. Would you like to join us? There's enough food for all of us, and I dare say you could squeeze in if you wanted."

The Weasel snorted, ignoring her invitation. "Don't see how you can stand to date someone like _him_."

Draco tried to rally his scattered wits to defend himself, but the Weasel had already turned away, refocusing on his initial target.

"And you!" he shouted, pointing a shaking finger back and forth between Harry and the Weaselette, "I really don't see how _you_ can stand to associate with this… this _scum_."

"Ron…" Granger tugged on his arm, but he ignored her.

"And if you're going to date my sister," he continued, "at least be man enough to admit it! Even if you are the bloody Chosen One!"

Harry opened and closed his mouth a few times – and, honestly, Draco had no idea what to say either – and then the Weaselette stood up, shoving her chair back.

"Ron!" she said firmly, "that's enough! I appreciate you looking out for me, I really do, but I've got this."

"But—"

"No, Ron! We're not ready for all the press and publicity that would come with an official announcement. Just leave it – I promise we've got it under control."

She made quite a picture, Draco had to admit, with her fiery hair and flashing eyes; he was struck by the way she deflected the Weasel's accusation without specifying just who she was dating. It was impressive; she'd have made a good Slytherin.

His attention was drawn to Granger, standing quietly at the Weasel's side. Observing. He could practically see the wheels turning in her head as she took in the Weaselette's tirade, Luna's unperturbed tea-sipping and growing smile as she watched. He knew she'd seen him tense, when the Weasel started in on Harry, and the look Harry had shot him that plainly said, "Leave it."

He sent her a pleading glance and she frowned, pursed her lips, and nodded.

"For now," she mouthed, careful to stay out of the Weasel's line of sight. She looked back at the Weaselette and Luna, both now frowning worriedly at Harry, who was taking the Weasel's impassioned – if borderline incoherent – tirade impassively, the tic in his jaw the only outward sign of his frustration. Her face softened.

"Come on, Ron" she said, leading him away with a determined hand on his arm. "You've made your point. Ginny's her own woman – you have to let her make her own choices." Then she leaned in and whispered something into his ear, and he huffed out a laugh and allowed her to lead him away, some of the unfortunate mottled color fading from his face.

The four of them watched them walk away, identical expressions of relief on all their faces. Granger turned her head, smirked at them behind the Weasel's back. "You all owe me," she mouthed.

Draco swallowed, wondering just how much she was going to demand. But then Harry squeezed his hand under the table, and he decided it would be worth it, no matter the price.

* * *

Someone knocked on his door as he was getting ready for bed that night. "Just a minute," he called, hopping on one leg as he attempted to pull on his pajama bottoms on the way to the door. It had to be Harry – no one else had knocked on his door this year – and he wondered what he might want.

They'd parted ways not long before, after salvaging what they could of their afternoon, despite the cloud that had been thrown over it. He had headed back to his room to catch up on the weekend's homework he'd been putting off, and Luna had skipped away, muttering something about the greenhouse. He'd thought to ask Harry if he wanted to work on their homework together, but the Weaselette had pulled him aside, whispering urgently, and Harry had shrugged apologetically at Draco and followed her toward the couches by the fire – unofficial Gryffindor territory. Draco tamped down the rising jealousy. They'd been friends longer, after all. And if Draco was honest, he'd get more done on his own, anyway.

He'd remained out-of-sorts and lonely, and was having trouble concentrating on his work. Now his heart leapt in his chest and he immediately forgave Harry for ditching him for the Weaselette earlier. They had to keep up the pretense, after all, if they didn't want to accidentally out themselves.

Draco was willing to forgive just about anything for the chance to spend some time alone with Harry. The date had been fun, certainly, but he'd been too self-conscious for all but the most innocuous touches. But now…

He had just enough time to anticipate another kiss before the door opened to reveal—

The Weasel. Draco's heart plummeted.

"If it isn't the Weasel," he sneered, hoping he looked convincing. "What do you want?"

"What do you think I want, _Death-Eater_?" He spat the words as if they were poisoned, and they fell on Draco like physical blows. He thought at first that he'd been cursed, then realized that the pain came from being called that horrid, hateful name he despised. He felt like he'd been punched in the gut, and it was a struggle to pay attention to the Weasel's words, loud and angry and punctuated by finger-jabs and profanity. "Loony Lovegood wasn't enough for you, is that it? Well, even she's too good for _you_. And let me tell you right now, you're not getting anywhere _near_ my sister. Harry may have tolerated you for the sake of his grades, but you'll see how quickly he'll turn on you if you ever dare to touch her."

"But—" Draco couldn't find the words, couldn't _breathe_ , but it didn't matter. The Weasel talked over him, anyway.

"Stay away from my sister, Malfoy. Or I promise you'll wish you'd died in that war."

The Weasel turned and stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him.

The inkwell on his desk fell over, spilling his favorite emerald green ink over his half-finished arithmancy essay and the sketch he'd been working on the day before. He didn't bother righting it.

He sank to the floor, struggling to draw breath around the bludger that seemed to have lodged itself in his throat. All he could think was that he'd been right about the Weaselette all along. But he couldn't blame her, not really. He was surprised more girls didn't try to snag Harry by any means they could. And wasn't the Chosen One better off with his hero girlfriend? Not with _Death-Eater scum_ like him. What could he offer that could hold a candle to what the Weaselette could offer him? The perfect family, 2.5 kids, and a white picket fence. The perfect life. If he'd chosen Draco, the best Harry could have hoped for would be to not be spat on in public.

Hot tears splashed onto his cheeks and hands, and Draco crumpled.


	7. Much Ado About Nothing

The fire crackled merrily in the common room, and Draco’s chilled fingers immediately relaxed. Harry sprawled inelegantly across his favorite chair – unsurprising, really, for a Sunday afternoon – playing exploding snap with Dean and Seamus. Draco scowled. Harry was smiling that easy smile that he saved for his Gryffindork buddies, the one that never failed to stir the familiar jealousy that roiled in Draco’s gut. Harry’s smile melted into a frown as he watched; the cards were clearly not going his way. Dean high-fived Seamus, crowing with delight.

 _Right._ Draco firmed his jaw, reminding himself what he had to do. He’d spent the morning sitting with the Thestrals, formulating a plan – and saying goodbye. He thought they’d understood. They’d each nuzzled against his hand for a moment before flying off into the Forbidden Forest. Often, one or two would approach him, especially if he brought treats, but never all of them. Yes. They knew.

Harry looked up; the beginnings of another smile tugged at his lips as he caught sight of Draco. He had to do it now. Before Harry spoke and he lost his nerve.

Draco squared his shoulders and stalked angrily toward Harry. “We need to talk.”

Harry shrugged apologetically at Dean and Seamus, who immediately started arguing about which of them had won. “What’s up?” he asked, as he attempted to shake some of the wrinkles from his robe.

“Not here,” Draco said shortly, offended on behalf of the abused robe. He turned, robe snapping out behind him, and strode back into the corridor. Harry hurried after him, stumbling back when Draco rounded on him the moment them were out of the room. “How could you? I thought —”

“What?” Harry’s forehead wrinkled. “Draco… you’re not making any sense.”

“I suppose it doesn’t really matter now,” Draco spat. “I hope she’s everything you dreamed of!” He turned away. _Now. Walk away now, before he has a chance to react._

“Draco —” Harry’s voice trembled slightly, and it irritated Draco that the git could _still_ get to him that easily.

Draco rounded on him. “No! You don’t get to call me that, _Potter_ , not anymore. You could have at least had the decency to tell me yourself, instead of having your Weasel do it for you. I thought I meant _that_ much to you at least.”

“Ron? What does he have to do with it?”

Draco smiled nastily. “I suppose he’s not your Weasel now, is he? Or are you fucking both of them?”

“What?”

“Stop pretending, Potter. You’re not that dumb – I know that now. I just wish—” He crumpled his robe in his fists, slumping into himself, then forcibly straightened, Malfoy mask descending over his features and turning them cold, impersonal. Like his father’s.

“I wish you every happiness,” he said stiffly, and turned and stalked away.

Harry ran after him, grasping at his robes. Draco twitched the fabric smoothly out of his fingers.

“What?” he ground out.

Harry was staring at him, confused and horrified.

“Where are you going?”

“Not that it’s any of _your_ business, Potter, but I’m going to drown myself in drink until I forget every last lie you sold me – and if that doesn’t work, I’ll try the Thames.”

He turned away, then turned sharply back. “You know, if you’d only had the balls to tell me yourself… I _know_ I’m not worthy of you, all right? _Salazar_ , Potter. I could never, _ever_ , be good enough – but I don’t need your goddamn lackeys to remind me! Of course you wouldn’t _really_ choose an ex- _Death Eater_ when you could have a war hero. I didn’t ever believe you would, really – only I _did_ , didn’t I? You made me believe, somehow, and even though I _knew_ it was all a pack of lies I – I bought it anyway. Because I thought that having you for a little while was better than not having you at all. Because I thought I was strong enough.

“But I’m not strong. I have never been strong enough, not when it mattered. And I did the one thing my father made me swear never to do – I let you in. And it turns out he was right.

“But what _really_ gets me about all this isn’t that you threw me away – I knew from the start I was disposable. What really gets me is how you could do something like that to Luna. Hasn’t the poor girl suffered enough? I thought she was one of you – the war heroes, the shining ones who can do no wrong. How could you hurt her like that?”

And as Harry stood, stunned, Draco turned and walked away.

He packed his trunks, penned a short apology to McGonagall, and walked out the castle doors, toward Hogsmeade. He didn’t look back.

He didn’t get a drink, in the end. He considered it, but it didn’t appeal. He didn’t throw himself in the Thames either – though he considered _that_ a bit longer. Instead, he used the floo at the Hog’s Head and went first to the Manor – where he had tea with his mother and then hugged her very tightly and told her he loved her – and then flooed to Diagon Alley, walked into the Ministry, and turned himself in.

The very flustered secretary escorted him personally to Kingsley Shacklebolt’s office and ushered him in.

Shacklebolt folded his hands and rested his chin on them, once the secretary had slipped out again, leaving them alone. “Now. Mister Malfoy. Tell me what this is all about.”

“Minister,” Draco inclined his head respectfully. “Sir, I find myself unable to finish out the year at Hogwarts. I ask that you please allow me to serve out the remainder of my original sentence.”

Shacklebolt stared at him for a moment, eyes steely. “Your original sentence was a Dementor’s kiss, Mister Malfoy,” he said flatly.

Draco closed his eyes and swallowed, hard. “Yes, sir.”

“And you’re telling me you would rather take the kiss than finish out the year at school.”

“Yes, sir.”

Shacklebolt slapped both palms on the desktop, startling Draco and making him jump. “Good God – _Why_?”

“It’s what I deserve.”

Shacklebolt massaged his temples. “You really believe that, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

He sighed. “You know I don’t have that kind of power – your request for a change of sentence will have to go before the Wizengamot. In the meantime, I’m afraid I’ll have to lock you up.”

Draco nodded, expecting it, and held out his hands. “Oh.” He removed his wand and laid it on top of the desk, where it stood out, dull and lifeless against the polished mahogany surface. They both stared at it a moment, then Shacklebolt shook his head and called for an Auror escort.

“Azkaban,” he said shortly, when the door opened. “Awaiting trial.”

The Auror – a short, squat man with a shaved head and a hard glint in his eyes – grinned and hauled Draco roughly to his feet. “Come on, then.”

Draco lowered his eyes and followed meekly. He didn’t speak for the duration of the journey, didn’t respond to the Auror’s taunts and jibes. He’d heard it all before. But when the heavy grate clanked shut behind him, echoing hollowly through the stones, he curled into a ball, rested his head on his knees, and cried.

* * *

Morning brought watery light that served only to highlight the years of grime and the same Auror who shoved a bowl of watery gruel through a slot in the cell door, along with several new taunts and insults. Draco ignored the taunts and the food. He certainly wasn’t hungry enough to eat _that_. Yet. He shivered, wondering how long it would take before he was. How long his father had lasted. They didn’t bother to replace the food that evening – either prisoners were served only one meal a day or, more likely, they didn’t see the point in replacing it if he wasn’t going to eat it. Which he wasn’t. He was, perhaps, a little less sure of that, after a day of nothing on his stomach… but in the end his pride won out.

He’d gone longer than this without food before, he reminded himself harshly. The thought wasn’t comforting, as it only brought those horrid memories to the forefront. And here, in the bleak emptiness of his cell, there was nothing to distract him from them. He spent that night tormented by ghosts, trapped in the prison of his memories.

The second day dawned much like the first – the same watery light, the same grime coating the walls. The same guard. The same watery gruel.

And then the third. They bled into one another, jumbled in his mind with confused images from the war, half-remembered and terrifying. Draco blinked blearily at the door, frowning. He’d thought he heard— There. Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Not the guard, swaggering and beating on the bars as he passed. Powerful footsteps, sure and unhurried. Like his father’s.

Draco felt his mouth go dry, and he searched frantically for some sign that he was safe. In Azkaban — not at the manor. His father was dead. Wasn’t he? He tried to focus on something – anything – but the world wavered before him, confused and out-of-focus. The footsteps grew nearer.

They stopped outside his door. For a long moment, whoever it was just stood there. Draco strained to see who it was, but the figure’s face was shadowed. He frowned. Even without identifying details, the figure looked familiar…

There was an ominous scratching of metal on metal, the creak of hinges badly in need of oil, and then the door opened. The figure didn’t move for a moment. Then it extended a hand and let something fall to the floor in front of him. It rolled across the floor of the cell, coming to a stop beside his shoe. It was – it was his wand. He stared at the smooth wood, incredulous, and then up into Harry’s unreadable eyes.

“Potter?” he croaked, feeling his inexplicably dry lips splitting, tasting the coppery tang of his own blood on his tongue – and Harry winced and summoned a glass of water.

“Thank you,” Draco whispered, after he’d drained the glass, set it beside him on the stone bench. Harry nodded. He didn’t speak – just stared, expression unreadable. It made Draco nervous, and he felt all the words he didn’t want to say crowding forward on his tongue. He’d always been a babbler when he got nervous. Neither his father nor Voldemort had ever cured him of the habit – not for lack of trying. He jolted back to the present as Harry finally spoke.

“Why?”

Draco frowned. “Because you threw me over for Girl-Weasley?” It seemed reasonable to him. Well, mostly.

Harry stared, forehead wrinkling. “I just don’t get it!” he exclaimed, finally. “I thought things were going well – better than. And then, out of nowhere, you up and accuse me of, what, cheating on you with Ginny?”

“Well—”

“And _then_ , because you can’t be bothered to actually hear my side of the story, you up and run off – to _fucking_ _Azkaban_.”

Draco winced again. When put that way, it did sound a little crazy. “You see—”

Harry’s eyes flashed. “ _Let. Me. Finish_ ,” he bit out. “The Dementor’s kiss, Malfoy? Really? Was that really the _only_ thing you could think of? Even if I _had_ decided I wanted Ginny – which I _didn’t_ , by the way – how in Merlin’s name is that _in any way_ a rational response?”

Draco felt the use of his last name like a physical blow. He couldn’t look at Harry any longer, couldn’t stand seeing the blazing anger in his eyes. “What are you going to do with me?” he asked, voice small, as he stared at the toes of Harry’s shoes. They were scuffed. He _really_ needed to tell him the charm for that.

Harry snorted and the anger drained out of his voice. He knelt down, took Draco’s chin in hand and turned his face up. “I’m going to take you home. _Idiot_ ,” he said fondly.

Draco blinked stupidly up at him. Too much had happened too quickly – he couldn’t process the words, couldn’t make sense of them. How many days had he been sitting here, without any food? The room shivered and danced before his eyes, and then it was spinning dizzily around him, and Harry faded away… and then everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since some people have been having trouble understanding Draco's motivations and reasoning in this chapter, I'm taking a commenter's advice and including the explanation I wrote to someone in the comments. I should really rework the chapter, since (ideally) it should be able to stand on its own, but.. for now, maybe this will help?
> 
> \----
> 
> It should make more sense next chapter? Hopefully. I was worried that this chapter would confuse people. :-(
> 
> This version of Draco is... not a drama queen, exactly. Very emotionally fragile and a bit unstable, after the war. He's also very very very sure that he's a bad person and he doesn't deserve anything good in his life. He's pretty much drowning in guilt, trying to shoulder the blame for *everything* in the war.
> 
> From the outside, he doesn't look rational at all. But it makes sense to him. In his head, there's no way that Harry could ever be interested in someone as tainted as him. So no matter how much Harry reassures him, Draco never quite believes. So when Ron comes and triggers his PTSD, Draco is quick to believe that Ron's right - that Harry either never was interested in him, and it was a cruel joke, or Harry would rather have Ginny. He doesn't have that little voice that says wait, stop and think, double-check that this is true - because it must be true. Because Harry can't possibly love him so of course it's true.
> 
> (I based this Draco heavily on myself, around the time I was first diagnosed as bipolar, with PTSD and a lot of anxiety, in my early 20s. This is how I reacted to things - even though looking back it was insane and completely illogical. It made sense (to me) at the time. If that helps.)
> 
> Hopefully it makes more sense now. If you still have questions, feel free to ask. I don't bite, and I always love the excuse to talk about my stories :-)


	8. All's Well That Ends Well

_Harry snorted and the anger drained out of his voice. He knelt down, took Draco’s chin in hand and turned his face up. “I’m going to take you home. Idiot,” he said fondly._

* * *

Draco opened his eyes, feeling fuzzy and not-quite-real. He expected to see the grimy stones of the prison cell – but instead he found himself blinking up at a familiar ceiling. He was in… his room at the Manor?

He heard someone shift, and turned quickly to see his mother, sitting in a chair by his bed, reading a book, and looking perfectly composed, as always, and not at all like she’d appeared out of one of Draco’s feverish dreams.

His head ached dully, and his body was sore all over. Maybe he did have a fever. It would explain some of the disorientation. But how had he gotten here? The last thing he remembered was…

His mother laid down her book and smiled at him. “Good afternoon, Draco. I’m so glad you’re awake.”

“Mother,” he said thickly, overwhelmed suddenly with emotion.

She smiled. “I should go and floo Healer Thompson, let her know that you’re awake. She checked on you a little while ago and said she thought you might wake up soon.” She pressed a cool hand to his forehead and her smile grew. “Yes, the fever has broken. Very good. I’ll leave you in Mr. Potter’s capable hands, then.”

Draco started and tried to sit up too fast. Strong arms caught him before he could fall, and he instinctively relaxed back against them. His mother smiled again. “Do let me know if anything changes, Mr. Potter. Otherwise, I’ll expect you boys in the parlor for tea.”

“Of course, Mrs. Malfoy,” Harry said, pulling Draco back against his chest. “We’ll be there.”

“Good.”

Draco watched his mother leave, feeling off-balance, then turned to stare at Harry. “Explain.”

“Demanding, aren’t we?” Harry laughed, ducking Draco’s half-hearted punch. “All right, all right. Keep your shirt on.”

Draco looked down at his bare chest and flushed. Harry snickered, holding him tight as he tried to squirm away. “Oh, no. Not so fast. I’m not satisfied that you’re all in one piece, yet.”

* * *

Narcissa chatted politely with Harry over tea, and Draco was incredibly relieved to see them getting along so well. Harry had apologized for their tardiness smoothly, kissing her hand and saying merely that they’d had a lot to talk about while Draco was ill. He wasn’t sure he liked the amused twinkle in his mother’s eyes when she glanced over at him, but it was certainly better than it could have been. He was relieved when the Healer pronounced him fit to return to school the next afternoon. Being at home was nice, as was being able to relax with Harry without worrying about someone seeing them, but it was weird. He wasn’t sure how to act around Harry with his mother watching, even if she did seem, oddly enough, to approve.

* * *

They stumbled through the floo in McGonagall’s office and explained the situation – trying to ignore the winks and mutters from the portraits behind her - which earned them an eye roll and exasperated instructions to “Shoo – and don’t even think about attempting to attend classes today, Mister Malfoy. I’ve excused the both of you until Monday – _at the earliest_ – and I expect to see neither hide nor hair of you until then. Do I make myself clear, gentlemen?”

They’d chorused a “Yes, Professor,” on instinct, and then, armed with a signature biscuit each, wandered out onto the grounds.

Draco sighed and crunched his biscuit pensively as they crunched down the walk. The sun was shining, the birds were singing – and it was Thursday. What on earth was he meant to do until Monday?

Harry snorted. “You can catch up on homework, idiot. She only said not to attend classes.”

“Oh. Good point.”

“I do make them. On occasion.”

“Hmmm. You know – I’m not sure I like that nickname. I don’t think it really highlights my best qualities.”

“Yes, well. Which of us got _himself_ thrown in Azkaban?” He held up his hands, warding off Draco’s half-hearted punch. “All right, all right. Truce. Where are we going, anyway?”

“Hmm?” Draco looked up, startled. “Oh. I wasn’t thinking. What’s that muggle phrase Granger’s always going on about? Something about autopilot?”

“Come here often, do you?” Harry turned to look at the building they were approaching – Hagrid’s hut – smirking.

“Yes, actually.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up. “What, really?”

Draco shrugged. “It’s relaxing. Come on – I’ll show you.”

“You do know that I’ve been here before?”

“Yes. But not like this. You’ll see – come on.”

Draco didn’t think to wonder if Hagrid would be home until he’d raised his hand to knock, but Hagrid answered the door promptly, assuaging his fears before they had time to take hold.

“Ah, Draco, lad. I’m glad ‘arry found you! They’ve missed you, they have.”

“Hang on – who’s missed him?” Harry looked curiously around the empty hut.

“Ah, well now. That’s up to Draco to tell. But come, come. I’ve still got a few scones and I was just about to brew me up a nice cuppa. Won’t you lads join me?”

“Ah, maybe lat—Ow!” Harry rubbed his shin where Draco had kicked it, scowling at him.

“We’d love to join you, Hagrid,” he said. “Come along, Potter.”

Draco purposely steered Harry to one of the more pungent teas, and snorted into his cup at the faces Harry made while attempting to drink it. Harry waited until Hagrid’s back was turned, and then leaned close and whispered, “I’ll get you for this, you know.”

Harry watched, clearly delighted, as Draco and Hagrid chatted easily, and Draco smirked at him when Hagrid turned to fish another scone out of the basket. It was delicious, sharing this with Harry. He couldn’t wait to see what he made of the Thestrals.

“I expect you’ll be wanting to see ‘em now?” Hagrid asked, as he heaved himself out of his chair.

Draco grinned. “Yes. If that’s all right, that is. I don’t usually come this time of day, I know, but—”

“Not to worry I’m sure they’ll be delighted to see you. And you too, ‘arry. You’re in for a right treat, you are.” He winked at Draco and refused to answer any of Harry’s questions.

“Well, that was enlightening,” Harry said, as they waved goodbye to Hagrid and walked toward the Thestral enclosure. “Though I’m still not entirely clear about what it is I’m going to see?”

Draco grinned. “It’s not far now— there. Do you see them?” He grabbed Harry’s hand, pointed toward the herd of Thestrals, who were just then descending into the pasture.

Harry gaped for a moment. “Well,” he said eventually, “it’s not what I expected, certainly. We’re not going closer, are we?”

“A bit.” Draco tugged him forward, through the gate, ignoring Harry’s reluctance, and led him up to the leader of the herd. “Hello there, old girl. Did you miss me?” She nosed his shoulder in greeting, whickering softly. He reached up and stroked her leathery hide. “I know. I missed you, too. I’m back now though – Harry rescued me, you see. Have you met Harry?” He reached blindly back for Harry’s hand, guided him forward, holding his hand out. “See?” he said softly, as he scratched behind her ear. “He won’t hurt you. He’s a friend of mine.” The Thestral snorted, blowing puffs of warm air over them, but then she nodded, inclining her head to them. Harry, Draco was relieved to see, bowed back easily.

“Well,” Harry said faintly, as the Thestral moved back to join her herd, “this brings back memories.”

Draco shoved him. “I may have been a fool back then, but you weren’t much better. Anyway, all I ever wanted was your attention.”

Harry wrapped his arms around Draco, pulling him back into his warmth. “Mmm. And now that you have it, what are you going to do with it?”

Draco forced himself to pull away, just enough to clear his head. “Talk. There’s a few things I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

Harry sighed but followed him obediently to his favorite spot by the fence. “So,” he said, as they settled themselves comfortably back against the wooden posts. “What did you want to ask me?”

Draco plucked a blade of grass, shredding it between nervous fingers. “Well… How did you find out where I was? And how did you get me out?”

Harry ducked his head, flushing. “Kingsley contacted me.”

Draco turned to him, suddenly worried. “Harry. What did you promise him?”

Harry coughed and pulled at his collar. “Er. That I wouldn’t become an Auror?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?”

“He didn’t actually mean for you to stay in there, you know. That Auror that took you – turns out he had a grudge against your father and decided it was the perfect opportunity to get a bit of revenge.” Harry’s eyes flashed with sudden anger. “He won’t get the chance to abuse his position like that again – Kingsley was livid when he found out. Tossed him out of the Aurors on the spot. Don’t think I’ve ever seen him that angry, actually.”

“So you’ve decided?” It was too much too fast – that Kingsley hadn’t meant to lock him up, that a rogue Auror had been exacting revenge – Draco focused on the one thing that made sense to him. Harry wasn’t going to be an Auror. It was a comforting thought.

“Well. I’m not going to Auror training, in any case. Kingsley said he didn’t want to know what sort of trouble I’d get into if I did. Said to let him know if I ever do decide to join up – and he’ll make sure to retire before I get the chance, leave me and my ‘special brand of trouble’ for the next Minister. I promised I’d let him know, and that I wasn’t planning on it anytime soon. Haven’t decided what I _am_ doing, though.” He grinned. “Speaking of, do you remember that list you wanted me to make? Of the things I liked?”

Draco snorted. “Yes? But I rather thought you didn’t.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Prat. Anyway, I spent some time thinking about it, after you – anyway.” He cleared his throat. “Want to hear?”

Draco raised his eyebrows, since words didn’t seem necessary.

“Right. Er. Here goes. Flying is first, obviously. Teaching the DA second – not the dark arts part, in particular – just teaching. Figuring out what each student needs in order to understand how to do whatever they’re struggling with. Guiding them through it. Watching them succeed the first time – it’s a heady feeling. Magical, even.” He flushed. “Anyway. Third was going to be Care of Magical Creatures, but…” he looked over at the Thestrals and snorted. “I suspect I’m actually ambivalent about the subject. You, on the other hand…” He raised an eyebrow as one of the younger Thestrals wandered over and began nosing about in Draco’s robe for the treats he often carried.

He just grinned. “People change,” he said softly. “Though I do believe I asked you for five things,” he said, as they stared out at the grazing herd. “And you’ve only given me three – two, really. Since you said yourself you’re ambivalent about Care of Magical Creatures.”

“Ah. Right. The last three were… unexpected.”

“Yes?”

Harry took a deep breath. “Right. Well, cooking, for one. I always thought I hated it, but it’s just that my aunt made me do all the cooking when I was small, but I was never allowed to eat any of it and…” He stared at his fingers for a moment, expression unreadable, then shook his head. “Anyway. I spent a lot of time in the kitchens after you stormed off. Turns out I really like it.”

Draco stared at him in horror. “Hang on. They made you cook for them?”

“Draco—”

“No, no. Go back. We’re going to talk about this.”

Harry sighed. “Later. I promise.” He took Draco’s hand and squeezed it. “I still have to tell you the last two things, remember?”

“Promise?”

“Pinky swear?” Harry hooked their pinkies together, and Draco snorted.

“You are impossible. Fine. What are the last two?”

Harry grinned. “Number four is arithmancy and ancient runes together. I’d have never even attempted to understand them without you, but I think they’re fascinating. I like the logic of them. And I can definitely see what you and Hermione like about them, now. And five… five is you.” He looked up shyly, biting his lip.

“Me.”

“Yes. Prat.” And Harry smiled as he leaned in and kissed him.

* * *

Later, as they lounged by the lake, Harry cleared his throat. He’d been reading ahead in their Arithmancy text – which had nearly given Granger a heart attack, when she’d joined them earlier to get their opinion on a sticky Arithmancy problem. Draco was feverishly scribbling, catching up on all the work he’d missed when he – temporarily lost his mind. That was the only explanation he’d been unable to come up with for his melodramatic overreaction.

“Why?” he asked quietly.

Draco sighed. He knew exactly what Harry meant, of course. He’d hoped to put it off a while longer but – well, they were going to have to talk about it sometime. He carefully finished his sentence, closed his books, put away his quill and parchment. And then he explained – about the Weasel, and his angry tirade, and Draco’s own jealousy over the Weaselette, and the great roiling mass of misunderstanding.

Harry was, predictably, livid. “Ginny and I have NO intention of getting back together – Ron was completely out of line. He’s never been very good about letting her make decisions, but if he’d been paying attention he’d know that we work better as friends. And after the war – well. She’s practically family, anyway.”

“You know,” Draco said hesitantly, “there is _one_ way to get the Weasel to back off and leave all of us the fuck alone…”

“And that is?”

He leaned over and whispered it in Harry’s ear. Harry laughed delightedly. “Oh, _hell_ yes.”

They planned it for dinner that night. Harry set off to corner Luna and the Weaselette and hash out the details while Draco finished his essay. They met up outside the Great Hall just after dinner had started for last-minute preparation.

“This is gonna be so much fun – Ron will flip!” the Weaselette said, straightening her Ravenclaw tie once more and then grabbing Luna’s hand. “Ready, love?”

Luna grinned at her, reaching out and tucking an errant strand of hair behind Ginny’s ear. “Always.” They skipped through the doors, still holding hands.

Harry met Draco’s eyes and they started counting silently together. “One. Two. Three… Now.”

They pushed through the doors together, not holding hands like the girls, but walking in step, shoulders brushing. Draco stared straight ahead, resisting the urge to worry at his Gryffindor tie – Harry’s tie. He could hear the mutters as people noticed that he was wearing red and Harry green. They walked to the eighth year’s table, but didn’t sit down. Instead, Harry turned to Draco, laughter lighting up his vibrant green eyes. Draco thought faintly that the tie must bring out the green in them, and that he would insist on Harry wearing his ties as often as he could get away with.

Harry waited until the whispers died out, and then winked at Draco. “Listen, Malfoy,” he said. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to say to you ever since the war ended. I really should have said it earlier, but I’m saying it now.” He paused and looked down, twisting his fingers nervously. Draco couldn’t look away, wondering what ridiculous thing Harry was about to say. They’d not planned this part – or rather, they’d planned for Harry to say something, but Harry had refused to tell him what it would be. He took a fortifying breath, resisting the temptation to run, hoping it wouldn’t be too embarrassing.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, pulling him abruptly from his thoughts. “I don’t think you’re a bad person – I know you never wanted to do any of those things that you had to do during the war, any more than I did. I saw what it did to you – what _he_ did to you. I think… I think you just got in with the wrong sort, you know? And I just want to start over.” He reached out, offering his hand. “Friends?”

Draco grinned, wider than he could remember grinning in years, tilting his head to the side and pretending to consider. “I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks,” he said. They stared at one another for about three seconds before they both burst out laughing.

McGonagall stood up from the head table, clapping slowly as she winked at them, and then Hagrid rose, clapping with a bit more enthusiasm, and then everyone stood at once, clapping and shouting and it was more than Draco could take in. But it didn’t matter, really, because, as usual, he wasn’t paying attention to anything besides Harry.

~The End~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks for sticking with me, you guys! Hope you enjoyed my silly little tale. Not to worry - more Drarry is in the works and will be coming soon, so keep an eye out!
> 
> If you'd like, you can follow me on tumblr at www.whimsicaldragonette.tumblr.com where I reblog lots of Drarry art and fics, and also post updates and snapshots of works in progress.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed, and feel free to come say hi on [tumblr](https://whimsicaldragonette.tumblr.com/)


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